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The rain pelted the roof of the armored black Cadillac with the force of falling lead. Inside, the cabin was suffocatingly silent, save for the rhythmic, mechanical swipe of the windshield wipers. I reached into my coat pocket, my thumb grazing the damp, frayed fabric of Miss Rose. / Chapter 8 / 20

Chapter 8 - The Price of Loyalty

The name on the screen belonged to Marcus Vance.

My chief of security. The man who had trained my enforcers, guarded my front gates, and stood beside me through every syndicate war for the past fifteen years.

"He wasn't just helping Colombo," I whispered, the realization settling over me like cold stone. "He was positioning himself to take over the entire organization the moment Colombo and I destroyed each other at Red Hook."

"He's still in the east wing command center," Niko said, standing up sharply from the table, his eyes burning with fury. "He thinks we're all still down here sorting through Colombo's wreckage."

"Don't move," I ordered, my voice dropping into that terrifying, quiet register that made hardened killers freeze in their tracks. "If we storm the command center with guns drawn, he burns the primary servers, and we lose the legal proof required to execute him before the entire commission."

"Then what do we do, boss?" Marco asked, resting his hand on his holster.

"We play his game," I said, a dark, calculating resolve taking hold of my mind. "We send an automated broadcast to the estate network claiming that I was injured during the extraction at Red Hook, and that I'm resting in my private office alone."

Marco’s eyes lit up with sudden understanding. "He'll come to finish the job himself."

"Exactly. A traitor who thinks he’s won is a traitor who makes mistakes."

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The burner phone in my hand felt heavy, like a slab of cold iron pulled from a sunken ship. Across the line, Marcus let out a breath that sounded like a low whistle escaping a pressure valve. Nineteen years of rust, nineteen years of school plays, quiet dinners, and ledger sheets—all of it dissolved in the space of a single heartbeat.

The burner phone in my hand felt heavy, like a slab of cold iron pulled...

The man in the back of the Bentley was not a stranger, though it took me three agonizing seconds to place the face behind the silver-trimmed beard. Arthur Vance. The reclusive billionaire shipping tycoon, corporate sniper, and my father’s oldest, most estranged rival.

The man in the back of the Bentley was not a stranger, though it took me...

The ink on the medical schedule wasn't standard printer black. It was darker, heavier, pressed down with the kind of deliberate malice that only a fountain pen could deliver. I stared at the signature at the bottom of the page, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The ink on the medical schedule wasn't standard printer black. It was da...

I walked over to the weapon rack on the far wall, sliding a heavy, suppressed Beretta into my shoulder holster, before slipping Miss Rose—still slightly damp from the rain—into the inside pocket of my coat.

"Niko, secure the perimeter exits," I commanded, walking toward the private elevator. "Marco, you're with me in the blind spot behind the eastern partition. Let's welcome our chief of security back to the family."

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